


Never Shall We Die

by DreamingAngelWolf



Category: Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alien Abduction, Illnesses, M/M, Slavery, Space Pirates, Steve and Natasha are good bros, lots of Bucky whump, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 20:15:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6871900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamingAngelWolf/pseuds/DreamingAngelWolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When their two best friends are suddenly abducted by aliens, Steve and Natasha pull out all the stops in order to bring them back home. Meanwhile, Clint and Bucky have their own problems unfolding in the middle of the galaxy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Shall We Die

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Esomem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esomem/gifts).



> This is a too-long overdue prompt from Tumblr that, owing to University work, I have only now just completed, and I can't tell you how good that feels! I haven't really given it a proper proof-read (because I was so desperate to finally upload it), so if there are any slight mistakes or things that need clearing up, let me know in the comments, and I'll happily smooth things out :-)
> 
> I'll say there's a slight warning for a fairly dire illness, but it's not too graphic and all turns out well in the end! Anything in Russian is translated at the end. Also what is this concept called 'time'? :S

On the first day, Clint remembers nothing but pain. It slashes across the back of his shoulders and down his spine, thousands of fiery knives weaving their way under his skin and through his muscles, clawing for bone. At some point, he thinks, he blacked out, only to wake up repeatedly at intervals afterwards with the same sweeping discomfort and no relief. The second day, back still sore, he sees Bucky again, and he understands.

As they’re taken somewhere further into the ship, wrists trapped in seamless handcuffs, Clint has full view of Bucky’s exposed back – and the new tattoo that now adorns it. Thick strands twist their way up the middle of his back, curling right at the top to carry on along his shoulder. From the central ‘vine’, thinner strands branch out, carrying small symbols that look like letters and words, too delicately drawn for Clint to begin trying to decipher. He rolls his own shoulders, feeling a sharp ache along both of them, and wonders if Bucky’s metal shoulder prevented them from completing the design. If so, is there a difference between what’s on his back and what’s on Bucky’s? Is it significant? What does any of it mean? 

Although he didn’t think to expect so, Clint quickly realises there are a whole variety of species bearing similar handcuffs and back tattoos. It’s hard, as they’re filed into a line, not to stare at some of the… beings he sees, but when the novelty wears off there’s a bigger issue at the front of his mind. 

“How are we getting out of this?” he whispers to Bucky as they follow other slaves downstairs. 

Bucky shrugs his left shoulder. “Working on it,” he mutters. “You okay?” 

Clint grimaces. “Sunshine and rainbows. You?” 

“Peachy.” 

“We need to get an idea of who we’re with and what this tin can looks like.” 

“I agree,” Bucky says, and then the two of them shut up as they’re brought into what is obviously the engine room. The huge room is the size of a factory warehouse, with most of the space taken up by huge tanks, pipes, pistons and gears. Electric lights blink from every possible surface, and a deeply unpleasant stench clogs up the air, and they get closer to it all Clint has to reach up and turn down his hearing aids, grateful that their captors left them in. Communication with Bucky seems pointless to attempt, and is made virtually impossible when he’s pulled one way and Clint is taken another. He tries to map the room’s layout as he walks, but it isn’t long before he’s pushed onto his hands and knees, kicked onto his back and shoved underneath a tankard of some kind with a rag pressed into his hands. Gritting his teeth through the pain in his back, he looks up; the bottom of the tankard is – oozing, leaking, mouldy? Either way, something green and sticky drips onto his face, and it doesn’t take a genius to work out what his job is. For how long, though, isn’t clear. 

***

Steve watches grimly as Natasha finally removes the wet rag from Randolph’s face. The Asgardian sputters in his seat, heaving in air hard between coughs, and Steve steps forwards before he has a chance to fully regain his breath. “We’re not playing around,” he says, tone hard. “Tell us who they are. Tell us where they’ve taken our friends. Keep up the silent act, and she’ll move on to the nastier stuff.” 

Randolph chokes out a laugh. “Part of me wants to see that,” he says, smiling up at Steve. It doesn’t last long. “There’s no point in me telling you anything. If I’m right, your friends are far beyond your reach now. It would be almost impossible for you to reach them.” 

“I’ll take that ‘almost’.” 

“You…” Randolph shakes his head. “You can’t be serious?” 

“Oh we’re serious,” Natasha purrs behind him. The crackle of her Widow’s Bites starts up, and she moves her hand very close to the back of Randolph’s neck. He sits up straighter, swallowing. 

“Yes, I can see that.” He clears his throat. “There’s something you must understand, then: these beings – they’re not like the Kree, or Skrulls, or the Chitauri, or anything else you’ve faced before. They’re the universe’s ‘bogey man’, if you will –” 

“We aren’t afraid of bedtime monsters.” 

“I don’t doubt that, Captain, truly I don’t. But many others are. Hence, information on them is scarce; what I know is compiled of rumours and stories, the warnings of others who claim to be witnesses.” 

“That’s good enough,” Steve says, folding his arms. “Start talking.” 

As Natasha brings her gauntlet round to rest over Randolph’s shoulder, the man gulps, and finally parts with information. 

***

“Bucky.” Clint props himself up on his elbow, reaching out to carefully shake Bucky’s shoulder, alarmed by how sweat-slicked his skin is and the heat that’s radiating from him. “Bucky, hey. You feeling alright?” 

In the gloom of the hull they’re packed into with other slaves, he just about sees Bucky shake his head. “Cold,” he says, voice trembling on just the one word. 

“You don’t feel cold,” Clint mutters, sitting up. There’s no need to, but he puts the back of his hand to Bucky’s forehead, frowning at the temperature. “Shit.” 

“Back hurts,” Bucky mumbles. Clint leans over him, unable to see much in the poor lighting, though he thinks maybe the skin around the tattoo markings looks a different shade to the untouched parts. 

“He’s reacting to the ink.” 

Clint looks to his right, surprised. An alien sits not far away, watching them both with big, dark eyes, pointed ears and oddly-hued skin (is it green?) marking them as not-human. It appears female, though. He would, any other day, ask her how she knows English, but there’s no time for that now. “The ink?” 

“That they use to mark us.” She blinks, eyes flicking to Bucky briefly. “Humans don’t always take to it too well. It… infects them, I think.” 

His stomach promptly drops. After the way they’ve been treated the last couple of days (hours? Weeks? How the hell is he supposed to know?), he doubts their captors will be forthcoming with medication. He tries to focus, to calm his racing heart and work out a way to alleviate Bucky’s discomfort. “Have you seen this before?” he asks the girl. 

Glancing at Bucky again, she shakes her head. “I heard them talking about it once. They thought it might have been something to do with the food and water they give us, but eventually ruled it out. I don’t think they care much.” 

“When do they bring rations round next?” he asks, feeling Bucky press his forehead to his thigh. He’s still shaking, and Clint runs a hand through his damp hair. 

“I don’t know. Sorry,” the girl responds, looking apologetic. “Time is invisible here.” 

“That it is,” Clint mutters. It’s a small miracle that his hearing aids haven’t given out yet. Taking them out while he’s forced to work might be helping, as might the new design Tony handed to him the day they were abducted. He sighs. “Do you – will they make him work, do you think? If he’s like this?” 

After hesitating, she nods, and Clint curses. “But maybe… maybe if you take him to the back of the room, he won’t get noticed when they take us out?” 

It’s not a cure, but it damn well could be right now. “You think?” 

“No,” she admits, still uncertain. “But at the very least, he won’t get trampled.” 

Well, her heart’s in the right place. Quashing down a surge of panic at the thought of what could have happened, Clint thanks the girl and shifts to a crouch. “Bucky?” he says gently. “We need to move you somewhere else. Think you can stand?” 

Swallowing, Bucky nods slowly, and they spend the next few minutes getting him to his feet. Upright, he sways, dropping his head onto Clint’s shoulder and leaning heavily into him, gripping his arms weakly. 

“Hey hey hey – you’re okay, you’re okay,” Clint whispers, steadying them both. Bucky’s breath is hot against his collarbone. “You going to be sick? Alright, that’s good. We’re gonna walk now, okay? Just keep hold of my hands, follow where I go. Come on. You gotta walk, Buck, I can’t carry you with your back the way it is. You can do it, that’s it…” He guides Bucky between the sitting and sleeping bodies, going at Bucky’s shaky-slow pace, murmuring encouragement each painful step of the way. Bucky looks ready to collapse by the time they reach the wall of the ship, and Clint lets him, supporting him by his metal arm as they sink back down to the ground. He curls up, his shaking subsiding with the cold of the untouched floor to soothe him, and Clint settles himself close by against the ship’s side. “Try and get some sleep,” he says, and though Bucky closes his eyes it’s obvious that sleep isn’t coming easy. With the way some of the other slaves are watching them both, Clint struggles, too. 

***

“You want me to do what?” 

To say that Carol looks unenthusiastic about Steve’s request is putting it nicely. “Natasha’s been knocking heads,” he says, “but we’ve hit a dead end. Quill’s our only option.” 

“And you think I can just get hold of him that easily?” Carol says, folding her arms as she leans against her doorway. 

“You can get him more easily than we can,” Natasha points out. “If we could do it ourselves –” 

“Then you wouldn’t be here, right.” She closes her eyes, shoulders heaving with a sigh. “Does it have to be now?” 

“Yes.” 

“Why?” 

“Because Bucky and Clint have been taken by aliens,” Steve snaps, “and we need to find them.” 

Carol blinks. “Aliens.” 

“We have a video feed,” Steve explains as Natasha pulls out her phone. “It happened post-mission, no warning. We thought it was a hoax until JARVIS ran some analysis.” 

It’s soundless – just footage from the Quinjet they’d taken – but Steve already knows what happens frame for frame. He watches Carol’s face, the pull of her brow as she gets to the part where Bucky and Clint vanish with a third body between them. Straightening, she hands it back to Natasha. “Do you know who’s responsible?” 

“We found out,” Natasha says simply. 

Steve adds, “They’re nasty. And they have our friends.” 

“And the only chance we have at rescuing them is Quill’s team.” 

She looks between both of them for a few seconds, then nods and steps back, motioning for them to follow. “Can’t guarantee I’ll get through,” she says as they pass her, “but you’re right, it’s a shot that needs taking.” 

Inside, Steve understands why Carol was bothered by their sudden request – Jessica Drew is lounging on Carol’s couch in a light pink sweater (slightly too big at the shoulders) and pyjama pants, a bowl of popcorn in her lap. She waves at Steve, who turns back to say something along the lines of an apology to Carol. Carol’s expression, however, gives him second thoughts, so he closes his mouth and nods in Jess’ direction, ignoring her snicker as he quickly follows Natasha through to the kitchen. 

“What’ll you do if this proves useless?” Carol asks as she brings her laptop in, Jess trailing behind her with the popcorn. 

“We’ll reach out to Thor, see if he and the Asgardians can do anything. Otherwise…” Steve shakes his head. “We’ll be back to square one.” 

“Huh. No pressure then,” Jess comments, munching on her snack as Carol sets up. “Who you calling, anyway?” 

“Peter Quill.” 

“Really? Why’s that so bad – I thought you liked him?” 

“I do,” Carol says, “it’s not him I’m bothered about.” 

Steve frowns, confused. “Then who?” 

Carol rolls her eyes. “The last time I interacted with the Guardians, Rocket insisted my cat was a Flerken. Not only did he try to destroy it – while we were inside my ship – but he turned out to be right. Don’t ask.” After a pause, she cleared her throat slightly. “Just don’t want him accusing Jess of being a Skrull or something.” 

“Aw, Carol,” Jess croons. “That’s sweet. But you know I’m not a Skrull.” 

“I thought the same about my Flerken,” she grunted, then sat back in her chair. “Okay, connection’s up. Now we wait and see if anyone’s home.” 

To Steve and Natasha’s relief, they only have to wait two minutes before the laptop screen bursts into life, blaring out a cheesy-sounding song and showing Peter Quill lip syncing passionately along to it (until, of course, he realises he’s being watched). 

“Hey, Captain D, how’s it hanging?” 

Carol gives him a wry smile. “It’s Major Danvers, Quill. I’m not really a Captain.” 

“Yeah but I can’t say Major D without laughing,” he giggles. 

Jess bends down behind Carol’s shoulder. “Hey Pete.” 

“Jess! Is that popcorn?” 

“It sure is.” 

“Aw, man, now I’m jealous. Also, loving the sweater.” 

“Thanks,” Carol says, and Jess smirks around her popcorn. “This isn’t a social call, Quill. I’ve got someone here who needs your help.” 

He pouts. “And here I actually thought you were beginning to like me, Danvers.” 

“You’re tolerable.” 

“I’ll take that. Okay – who’ve you got and why do they think I can help them?” 

Carol introduces Steve and Natasha, letting them explain Clint and Bucky’s situation. Quill stays quiet for most of it, but when Steve mentions who did the abducting, his entire demeanour changes; “Whoa, wait, uh – are you serious?” 

“You’ve heard of them?” Steve asks. 

“Heard of them?” Quill sputters. “Dude, they’re so well known, you don’t speak that name unless you want to get enslaved!” 

“Who would want to be enslaved?” 

“Eh. You’d be surprised.” 

Steve’s not betting on that. “So, you’ll help us?” 

“Uh…” Quill grimaces, hissing through his teeth. “Sorry pal. I like my freedom.” 

“Will you at least hear out the plan?” he asks, and Quill relents. Steve outlines what he and Natasha hoped the Guardians would be able to do, explaining first that they’d thought the Guardians would be able to provide extra knowledge (or find some) – he doesn’t get especially far before Quill’s protesting again. 

“Nope! No way, that would be suicide. Only crazy people would even think about attempting that – and I mean, crazy crazy, ‘cause, y’know, we’re crazy, but at least we know when we’re listening to a plan that is absolutely ludicrou- oh no.” 

“What’s ludicrous?” 

“Nothing, nobody said ludicrous, go away,” Quill says, head in his hands as a walking tree appears behind him. 

“I am Groot.” 

“Yeah, I heard him say it too,” another voice says, and Rocket’s head appears in front of Quill. “Oh, it’s the Flerken lady.” 

Carol glares at the screen. “Rocket.” 

“Do you mind?” Quill says. “We’re kind of having a conversation here.” 

“I know, and somebody said something’s ludicrous.” Rocket turns around and climbs onto Quill’s lap. 

“Uh, what are you doing?” 

“Getting comfortable.” 

“You’re sitting on my lap.” 

“Well spotted, eyes-for-brains.” 

“Why are you sitting on my lap?” 

“Well I can’t sit on the control panel, can I?” 

“I am Groot.” 

“Exactly, and then you’d get all pissy at me for accidentally putting us into hyperspace or something.” 

“But why are you sitting in my lap!” 

“Because somebody said something is ludicrous and I want to know what!” 

Groaning, Quill gives up, and asks Steve to explain everything again. Getting irritated by the incessant explaining and justifying he’s doing, Steve rattles off the important details: their friends have been abducted and they have a plan for rescuing them. Rocket seems interested, and asks who they’d be attacking. Quill tells him. 

“Seriously? That’s ludicrous. We have to do it.” 

“I am Groot.” 

“I just said that, you creaky oaf, pay attention!” 

“Look,” Steve interrupts, patience wearing thin, “the longer we sit here talking, the less chance we have of getting Bucky and Clint back unharmed. Now either you’re in, or you’re out, Quill, so which one is it?” 

Quill opens his mouth to answer. 

“We’re in.” 

“Oh, I'm sorry, is your name Quill?” 

“Well you weren’t gonna say it!” 

“You have no idea what I was going to say!” 

“Quit yelling down my ear!” 

“I am Groot.” 

“That’s right, Groot, think of the people, Quill!” 

“I was going to say yes.” 

“You were not.” 

“I was.” 

“Bet my Mark III Kree blaster trigger you weren’t.” 

As the argument continues, Steve turns a despairing look to Natasha. “Are we sure about this?” 

Looking equally unimpressed, Natasha sighs heavily. 

***

Bucky retches against the side of the ship again, but by this point it’s a useless endeavour. Helpless, Clint keeps rubbing the back of his neck, purposefully not looking at the inflamed tattoo branded across Bucky’s skin, slick and shiny with sweat. His condition has only been getting worse as the hours have dragged by, and between the work and keeping watch over him, Clint’s starting to struggle as well. He’s exhausted – mentally and physically – but in this hell where barely anyone speaks human and even fewer care to try, he’s all Bucky has; and with their captors’ blatant disregard for whether or not Bucky lives… 

He swallows. That’s a thought he’s done well to keep from developing. Tiredness must be coming to claim him sooner than he hoped. 

When Bucky finally collapses, shaking everywhere except his metal limb, Clint carefully repositions him with his head in his lap, and cards his fingers through Bucky’s sodden hair. If he had more energy, he’d try talking to him, but Bucky can slip in and out of consciousness in a heartbeat now, and that’s to say nothing of his perception of their situation. He can still be soothed though. Clint can manage that. 

“You care about him.” 

It’s the alien youngster who helped them the other day. Clint glances up at her, finding her wide, black eyes watching them both with warm curiosity, and nods, gaze going back to Bucky’s head. “More than anything.” He’s already passed out again, temperature high enough to make Clint perspire a little too. But he’s still breathing, and Clint gives him most of his water ration, and he can stomach a small amount of ‘food’ every now and again, and that’s what matters at the moment. 

“Why?” 

He shrugs vaguely. “Lots of reasons.” 

She tips her head, pointed ears twitching when she blinks. “But I was taught,” she begins, “that human males couldn’t carry offspring? That that was the females’ primary role?” 

Clint gives her a look of confusion. “We don’t,” he says flatly. “And that’s not one of the reasons.” 

“Oh.” She blinks again, looking at Bucky contemplatively. “So… It’s a pleasure partnership?” 

He shifts. “If you wanna call it that.” 

“Huh.” Sitting back on her heels, she explains, “I often wondered if that happened between humans. I mean, you can’t change roles, so why else would two same-sex individuals relate to one another?” 

Thoroughly confused, Clint just stares at her. “What are you talking about?” 

Making herself comfortable, the alien girl tells him: “Back on my planet, my species has evolved to be adaptive to the needs of the population. We’re very in-tune with what each other is feeling, and our goals and work are all geared towards making everyone as comfortable as possible. What that means is, when it comes to – uh, what’s the word you use? Relates, relatives, relations –” 

“Relationships?” 

“Yes, relationships; when it comes to relationships, partners usually only decide who will take on which reproductive role when they’re considering having offspring. That would mean that – as you perceive them – males or females can give birth depending on how the individual adapts for the relationship.” 

“Oh.” It’s… almost beyond Clint’s worn-out imagination. He wonders what Bucky would make of such a way of living. 

“Can I ask you another question?” 

Closing his eyes, he drops his head back against the metal hull. “Kid,” he says, “as much as I appreciate the conversation, I’d rather get some sleep while I can.” Peering at her blearily, he adds, “I’m no good to him if I can’t keep my eyes open. But I promise – when I’m more awake, I’ll answer your questions.” 

“Okay,” she says quietly, strange eyes dropping briefly to Bucky’s form. “I can watch you both, if you like?” 

Clint smiles at her. “Thanks,” he mumbles, and falls under sleep’s spell hard and fast. 

Not deep enough, however. 

“Clint!” 

He wakes with a start, and realises two quick heartbeats later that someone’s gripping his shoulders tightly. One heartbeat after that, he finds himself nose to nose with a panicked Bucky. 

“There’s something on my back,” he gasps, both hands hot on Clint’s skin. “There’s something on my back and I can’t get it off, Clint, you have to help me get it – get it off, it’s try- trying to kill me –” 

“Bucky, hey, shh,” Clint says, shifting to his knees and putting a hand on Bucky’s good shoulder. “You’re alright, you’re not going to die – Bucky, no!” 

“Get it off!” he growls, clawing at his back and crying out when he only harms himself further. 

“Stop it – Bucky, that’s you. It hurts, yes, but you’re making it worse –” 

“Clint, help me, please!” 

“I’m trying, just listen,” Clint pleads, aware that other slaves are starting to shout at them in tongues he can’t understand. Something wet and green flies past the back of his head, smacking to the hull wall sickeningly. “Bucky,” he tries again, wrestling his arm away from his back and holding tightly to his wrists. “Bucky – stop. Listen.” 

“No!” 

“You are safe.” 

“Clint –” 

“Nothing is trying to kill you.” 

“It is, my back –” 

“I won’t let it. Okay?” He tucks Bucky’s heated head against his shoulder, stroking it reassuringly as he whispers into his ear. “I’m here. I’m here, and I’ve got you.” The shouts have faded out, and he glances to his right. He sees a figure stood with their back to him and Bucky, a dark coloured silhouette, sheets of something hanging from outstretched arms. Pointed ears twitch occasionally. “We’ve got friends,” he says to Bucky, accepting that they have a modicum of privacy now. “They might not be the friends we’re used to, but they’re better than nothing, and I promise – I promise you, Bucky – that I won’t let anyone or anything take you away from me.” 

Without meaning to, he looks down over Bucky’s back, and a lump forms in his throat. Bucky managed to scratch at the tattoo, breaking the skin in places. Thin trails of blood run over the ink markings, more openings for infection to sneak in and more sources of pain for him, and the cuffs of Clint’s trousers are all he has to dab at them with, already torn from where he tried to mop Bucky’s sweat away at the beginning of his fever. Unless he gets medicine, Bucky will – he’ll be in serious – 

He’s gone very still. 

“Bucky?” 

“Nyet.” 

The one word freezes Clint’s heart. “What?” 

“Ne stul.” 

“Stool?” 

“Pozhaluysta, ne stul!” 

“Bucky, speak Eng- ah!” 

“Eto moya golova!” Bucky shouts as he lashes out at Clint, pushing them both over in the process. “Vy ne mozhete prinyat’ moi vospominaniya bol’she – ya ne pozvolyu!” 

There’s more shouting, the sound of flesh being beaten somewhere behind them, but Clint can’t concentrate, his temple throbbing where Bucky’s fist made an impact. He wants the nightmare to end; he wants to go to sleep, wake up in bed with Bucky healthy and whole, their backs untouched, and aliens still far away after the Chitauri’s defeat. He wants Natasha, Steve, Thor, the rest of the team – hell, he’d settle for his brother at this point, just someone. Someone familiar. Someone to give Clint a break. To help make Bucky better. To make this whole fuckery of a situation bearable. 

***

“I think it’s safe to say we’ve now advanced from SNAFU to FUBAR in the situation norm department.” 

If someone had told Steve earlier that day that he’d end up being involved in a space shoot-out within the next twelve hours, he would have laughed. As it turns out, space shoot-outs are no laughing matter. Unless, apparently, you’re small and furry. Despite Quill’s situational update, Rocket continues to laugh somewhat maniacally over the comms, their ship now spewing smoke from one side. 

Carol’s ship takes a hit, and she growls as it shakes violently. “Next time somebody wants me to participate in a ludicrous plan,” she says, wrenching the controls to avoid an enemy fighter craft, “the answer is going to be ‘no’.” 

“Seconded,” Jess squeaks, holding on to the back of Carol’s chair tightly. As they pitch sideways again, Steve finds himself sharing the notion. 

With a calm to rival JARVIS, Harrison, the ship’s computer tells them that the starboard hull has been breached. “Wonderful. Lock down the bridge,” Carol commands. “And get a fucking lock on that target already!” 

“You see, Rocket? Even the Captain’s swearing over comms now!” Quill exclaims. 

“Give it a rest, Quill – she’s clearly in the moment!” 

“I am Groot!” 

“Hey, cut that out, buddy; there’s a time and a place.” 

“A little help here, please!” Carol shouts, nose-diving in time to avoid a head-on barrage from one of the main vessel’s defenders. She pulls up as the Guardians take care of it, muttering, “Two on eight, what the hell were we thinking?” 

“Sorry, Carol,” Steve says. “We didn’t want to drag you into this.” 

“But it’s our friends’ lives at stake,” Natasha adds, sounding apologetic as well. 

“Yeah, I get it,” Carol grunts. “You’d do anything for –” 

“Target locked.” 

“Halle-fucking-lujah. Quill, Rocket, heads up – launching missiles.” 

***

The ship is in utter chaos, and Clint thinks it’ll be nothing short of a miracle if he and Bucky make it out alive. Especially Bucky. 

“This way!” his new friend shouts over her shoulder, finding her way through the mass brawl as if she’s been doing so all her life. Clint, with a semi-conscious Bucky over his shoulder, is not having such an easy time. 

“What the fuck is happening?” he asks again as the ship shudders with a loud ‘boom’. 

“I don’t know what a fuck is,” she responds, ducking between two thick-muscled slaves, “but the ship is under attack. This is your chance to get out!” 

“Are you serious?” They could be killed out there just as easily as they could be in here. 

“The escape pods are this way.” 

Clint stops. “How do you know that?” 

“I was made to clean them a few times. They have the best cloaking devices in the universe, stolen Chlamoene technology. Once you’re away, no-one will find you if you don’t want them to – trust me.” 

She looks at him with wide eyes, yet Clint is reluctant. Taking people at their word hasn’t always worked out so well for him, and in this beyond insane environment with Bucky the way he is, the last thing he wants to do is land them in a worse situation. And yet this strange alien girl is the only person on this goddamned ship who has looked at him kindly, the only one who showed concern for Bucky and a willingness to help. She even protected them both when she had no reason to. Add all that to the fact that, really, they couldn’t possibly walk into a worse situation than the one they’re in now… 

“Alright.” 

Her smile is filled with relief. “This way, quickly!” 

As fast as he can with an unwell super-assassin on top of him, Clint follows her out of the slave hold and into a part of the ship he’d only ever passed by. The difference in cleanliness is almost blinding, the lights bright enough to make him squint, but the alarm is just as present and the chaos is still flying around them. Bucky makes a soft noise as they enter the corridor, and Clint gives his leg a slight squeeze, hoping it’s reassuring (if not comforting). He wants to know how far away these escape pods are, but he made a choice to trust the girl, and his attention is better spent on keeping up with her and making sure Bucky isn’t hurt further. One thing he can’t help but notice, however, is that the longer they travel, the calmer the ship seems to get – no guards, and few prisoners, none of whom seem to be going their way. It’s hard to know whether he should be grateful for that or worried by it. 

Suddenly, before they round a corner, she darts back, hands out to stop Clint from stepping around the wall. “The pods are guarded,” she whispers. 

Clint frowns. “I can fight,” he says, “but I don’t want to leave Bucky.” 

She nods, black eyes focused elsewhere. It looks like she’s thinking, the only movement coming from the flicking of her ears as she blinks, but before Clint can make a suggestion she says, “I can distract at least one of them. That’ll give you an opening.” 

He stares at her. “No. No, you can’t –” 

“The pods are un-coded,” she says, speaking quickly, “so you’ll be able to get in without trouble. Once you’re inside you can lock it, prevent anyone else from getting in. There should be a healing source of some kind inside too. Controls are voice-activated, they should recognise human. They contain enough nutrients for two individuals to last a long while. Earth’s co-ordinates might be programmed in already, just ask for them and set your course. And don’t forget to initiate cloaking.” 

“Uh… okay. Thanks. Wait!” Clint hisses as she turns to go. “What about you?” 

To his surprise, she grins. “Who knows?” And with that, she’s gone. Around the corner, shouting ensues, quickly followed by gunfire. 

Clint’s stomach drops. He counts to five and peeks out, beyond relieved to see two doors and no guards. Hurrying to the nearest door, he finds it open, as he’d been told; locking it behind him, it’s the first time since being abducted that he feels remotely safe. It’s also the point that he realises he never knew the alien girl’s name. 

***

The helmet is choking him, but after inadvertently seeing what happens to a creature without a helmet on in space, Steve’s not going to loosen it even a millimetre. Mercifully, he only finds it a minor inconvenience whilst fighting, and after being reminded (slightly painfully) that his peripheral vision is somewhat limited, the same mistake was not made again. He’s hardly surprised to see Natasha having no trouble adapting whatsoever (it’s how she manages to stay graceful that’s beyond him). He watches with admiration as she takes out the last of their attackers before tapping his com link. 

“We’ve cleared this level, no sign of them. Beta team, any luck?” 

“None, sorry Steve,” Jess replies. “All Gamora can get from anyone is that there were two humans among the slaves. They either don’t know what happened to them, or won’t say.” 

Steve bites back a growl of frustration. “Tell her to get that information in whatever way she can,” he snaps, and signs off. 

“Steve.” 

He drops his head. Forgetting that his faceplate is in the way he goes to wipe his face, annoyed when he’s denied even that. “What if they’re not here, Nat?” he asks, looking up at her. “What do we do?” 

She walks over to him, giving his shoulder a squeeze. “Whatever it takes to find them.” Steve thinks back to all the times Bucky told him how amazing Natasha was, and has never been more in agreement. 

A gasp sounds from behind Natasha. At the end of the corridor stands a green-skinned figure with a slight build, pointed ears, and round, black eyes. Her mouth is open, but she doesn’t look frightened – to Steve, it looks more like she’s shocked. They’ve cleaned this ship of occupants for the last two hours, but somehow, this one slipped through their grasp. 

Natasha steps toward the alien but Steve catches her wrist, raising a hand cautiously. “We’re not here to hurt you,” he calls out gently. “We just need some information.” 

The creature’s ears twitch as it blinks. “You’re human too,” it says, its voice sounding feminine. 

Steve’s heart quickens at the words. “Yes,” he says, moving closer. Natasha follows at his shoulder. “We’re looking for two others of our kind –” 

“They’re gone,” it says, shaking its head. “And if they’ve put the cloaking on, you’ll never…” 

“What do you mean?” Natasha asks. 

The alien’s shoulders slump, and it looks up at Steve with what he thinks is regret. “They took an escape pod back to Earth; but it’s equipped with the best cloaking technology in this system.” It swallows. “I don’t know if you’ll be able to find them.” 

***

“Set destination to: Transeliton?” 

“No, dammit, translate this!” 

Again, Clint waves the pot of something at the holographic computer screen, wishing it wasn’t just an image so he could actually hit it, see if that gets it to work. All he wants to know is what the writing on the lid of the pot says. He successfully set their destination to Earth, and even managed to engage the fancy cloaking technology, but now Bucky is his main priority again, and if this pot can help in any way then Clint needs to know. 

Groaning, he drops his head onto the control desk. Bucky’s life is in his hands. That’s not unusual; their day-job calls for it more than enough. What’s new is that there’s no Magic Arrow Clint can pull out to save the day – he has no idea how to stop the unknown sickness coursing through Bucky’s body, ruining him from the inside out, nor how long it will be before time runs out for him. At the last check, his pulse was there but thin, and his breathing is getting shallower by the minute. Clint doesn’t dare take his aids out for fear of Bucky’s breathing stopping altogether. The computer implied it will take years to reach Earth. 

Bucky’s dying. Clint might soon be himself. Their friends probably think they’re already gone. His brother is clueless. No-one will ever know what happened to them. Of all the screw-ups Clint’s ever made, at least this makes for a fitting final act. He closes his eyes, and whispers “Help,” into the void. 

“What would you like help with?” 

He lifts his head to give the computer a damp-eyed glare. “Medicine.” 

An interior design sheet appears, the supply cabin where Clint found his mystery pot high-lighted in pulsating green. “General healing gel can be found in this pod’s immediate supply station,” the automated voice says, and another helpful diagram appears to show him what the ‘gel’ looks like. 

Clint looks between said diagram and the pot in his hands; in his haste to get to Bucky, he falls over the back of his damned chair, but his trip barely registers because for once it looks like he’s not fucked something up. Well – not as monumentally as he first thought, at least. 

“Hold on, Buck,” he murmurs as he unscrews the lid. Pictures on the underside show him how to apply the strange, gel-like substance, and he tips it slowly onto the infected tattoo. It settles over the design oddly, a thick, shiny covering that magnifies the ugly ink and mottled skin, and Clint panics slightly that it hasn’t worked. He feels for Bucky’s pulse, not noticing a difference from his last check, and gets no response when he tries to rouse him either. With no immediate signs of healing, he eventually decides to put Bucky into the recovery position. It’s difficult, with Bucky lying on his front and the gel covering his back, but Clint is surprised to see that it moves with Bucky’s muscles and stays exactly where it first fell, not even sliding down once he’s on his side. Maybe, Clint thinks, that means it’s working? 

With no answers to hand, there’s little else he can do. He pulls one of the chairs over to the bunk and sinks into it, reaching for Bucky’s clammy hand and resigning himself to doing what he hates the most: waiting. 

***

“Tell me we can find it.” 

When deciding to team up with Peter Quill and the Guardians, Steve did not envision that their alliance would end up here, with Natasha’s blade at Quill’s throat, Gamora’s at hers, and Groot stood between him and them. Out of the corner of one eye, Steve can see Drax watching the action with clear amusement, whilst Rocket ignores the chaos in his other peripheral, picking through a host of spare parts he picked up from the slave ship’s engine room. 

Arm twisted behind his back, Quill swallows, breathing out carefully. “Sure,” he says, “we can find it. They’re headed back to Earth, right? There’s only – oh, one million possible ways it could be going.” 

“I don’t like your tone,” Natasha growls. 

“And I don’t like yours,” Gamora says, tilting Natasha’s head up with her sword. The Black Widow doesn’t release her hold on Quill. 

Next to Steve, Carol shakes her head. “This isn’t helping,” she says, and steps forward. “We need to pull – for God’s sake, Groot, I’m not going to hurt anyone. Let me past.” 

“I, am, Groot.” 

“Yes,” Quill says. “How about nobody hurts anybody, and we let this little Mexican stand-off just dissipate into memory… yeah?” 

After a pause, Natasha moves her hands, raising them aside her head, knife slipping from her fingers. Steve hears Rocket mutter “That’s not what he said,” as Quill hastily steps out of her reach, and a second later Gamora relaxes her stance. Groot becomes the friendly, innocent looking giant Steve is more familiar with once again, and aside from some tension between the two female assassins, it’s as if the stand-off never happened. 

Carol takes control of the situation. “Okay then. Now everyone’s co-operating, first things first: what’s our best shot at finding this escape pod?” 

Rubbing his neck, Quill clears his throat. “Uh, at this point? Heading for Earth and hoping we stumble across it.” 

“Seriously?” Steve asks. “That’s all you’ve got, an accidental find?” 

“Look Blondie,” Rocket says, still more interested in his scrapheap, “it’s got Chlamoene cloaking technology.” He chuckles. “We don’t have the gear to compete with that!” 

“The only race who might have a shot at finding it on a radar are the Skrull,” Gamora says. “But I doubt they’d be amenable to our situation.” 

“And reaching out to them might take too long anyway,” Carol muses. Hands on her hips, she shares a worried glance with Jess, who frowns back from within her helmet. 

Feeling his frustration turn into desperation, Steve runs a hand over his faceplate. “There must be something we can do.” 

“There is,” Drax says. “You just don’t like the chances of success.” 

“These are our closest friends. We need to find them.” 

“And you might. But if you stand here and do not try, you won’t.” 

Might… 

“Steve,” he hears Natasha say. “What do you want to do?” 

If anybody knows anything about standing up against the odds – no matter how big they are compared to you – it would be a Brooklyn kid miles away from home. “We head for Earth. And we make sure we find them on the way.” 

“What if we don’t?” Rocket asks. 

“We go back and look again.” As many times as necessary. 

***

It’s two long sleeps before Clint sees Bucky open his eyes, and even though the moment is fleeting, tears are spilling over Clint’s smile before he can process his emotions. Mostly, he’s relieved: despite the odds, Bucky’s still alive, and Clint spends the majority of the next few hours ensuring he stays that way, talking to him in the hopes that he might be roused again for a bit longer. 

“You know what I think?” Clint smirks to himself. “I think we’re space pirates. No, hear me out,” he says, as if Bucky had given him one of his ‘Really, Clint?’ looks. “This isn’t our vessel. We’re in a space not ‘owned’ by anyone of our race, or any of our intergalactic allies. We don’t answer to whatever laws exist out here. Technically, we’re on the run. Space pirates.” If he were conscious, Bucky would probably make some comment about how them being ‘on the run’ puts them more under the ‘fugitive’ banner, Clint thinks. “Being space pirates sounds way cooler than being space fugitives. Nat would totally agree.” 

She’d also make a much better space pirate than either of them. Knowing her, she would have taken someone hostage, someone to show her how to do things properly: plot the best course home, use the rations efficiently, send out a message to allies, cobble together a makeshift weapon – wait. 

“D’you think SOS messages would get picked up out here?” Clint asks aloud, pushing his chair over to the control deck. “Um – computer? Can you send a distress signal out?” 

A blue text box appears in front of him. “Would you like to compose a distress message?” 

“Yes!” He punches the air, looking over his shoulder to say to Bucky, “You see? Given time, I do actually have some good ideas. Okay –” With a roll of his shoulders and a knuckle crack for good measure, Clint taps out a cry for help. 

What follows that is another prolonged bout of waiting, during which Clint begins to notice changes in himself and Bucky: despite the work their captors put them through, they’ve lost considerable weight – Bucky’s left arm is now noticeably bigger than his right, and Clint can almost see each of his ribs individually. Their skin has turned sallow and slightly oily from lack of cleaning, the strange trousers given to them now worn and smelly. Just thinking of real food makes Clint’s stomach clench tightly. 

“They’re gonna put us through so much rehab,” he says to Bucky, sat cross-legged by the side of the bunk as he rubs the inside of one ear, his hearing aid resting on his knee. He groans, dropping his head onto the frame as he realises aloud, “They’ll make us see therapists, won’t they? Aw. I hate therapists.” 

Bucky coughs. 

Instantly, Clint’s head pops up. “Bucky?” 

He’s moving. Feebly, and not much, but his eyes aren’t closed, and his forehead isn’t radiating heat like it had been. Immediately, Clint sticks his aid back in (ignoring the way his ear aches) and moves to get him some water from the pod’s single tap, putting it on the floor by the bunk. 

“I’m gonna help you up, okay?” he says to Bucky, who doesn’t quite nod in response. Gripping his shoulders, he slowly – and with slight difficulty – manoeuvres Bucky upright, sitting close beside him. “Lean on me,” he murmurs, bending down for the cup. The metal shoulder digs into his own as Bucky sags against him, his head lolling forward. “It’s alright, I’ve got you. Here, have a drink. Go slow, though.” 

Looping his free arm around Bucky’s waist, Clint tips the cup gently against his lips, giving him enough to sip on. Bucky still manages to choke on a little, coughing harshly on a dry throat and trembling afterwards; yet some water is better than none, and Clint is just as pleased as he is concerned once the cup is empty. Bucky’s conscious, and he’s drinking – that’s great, sure. But he has almost no energy, on the verge of passing out again already, and although getting some liquid in him will help there’s no telling to what extent it will speed up his recovery. Without doubt, he needs more than just water, but the ‘nutrients’ provided in the pod don’t appear to be designed with humans in mind, let alone a weak semi-super-soldier. 

Thinking in Bucky’s best interests, Clint gently kisses his head and says, “Go back to sleep if you need to. There’s plenty of time for you to get better.” 

‘Why say that,’ a voice in his head says, ‘if you’re both going to die here eventually?’ 

He holds Bucky tighter. “Plenty of time.” 

***

While Carol goes out to repair what she can of her ship, Steve tries to find a place to rest. Jess has somehow dropped off in the pilot’s seat, held upright in what has to be a very uncomfortable manner, yet she snores softly as if nothing in the universe could disturb her. Steve wants that luxury again. He even goes down into the engine room to see if the noise can drown out his thoughts, but the machinery he finds down there reminds him of Bucky, and the way they would talk about technology in the war, or the advances that really came about in the twenty-first century. He’s only a little dismayed when Natasha finds him slumped against part of the engine that doesn’t burn his back too badly. 

Natasha remains silent for a moment, tapping on a tablet with Carol’s star logo on the back before handing it to Steve. The screen reads, ‘If you were Clint I’d be signing this to you right now.’ 

Steve snorts. Underneath, he types, ‘Clint wouldn’t need to come down here.’ 

‘He would if James wanted to.’ 

Of course he would. Sighing, Steve presses his fingers into the corner of his eyes. ‘If’ was such a cutting word sometimes, innocent and dangerous. 

The tablet bumps his shoulder again. ‘We will find them whatever it takes,’ it read. ‘Even if it means becoming space pirates.’ 

Steve smiles, and Natasha sits herself beside him, dropping her head onto his shoulder. When the tablet screen goes black in Steve’s hands, she says something, her words lost under the rumble of the engines. “Yeah,” Steve says anyway. “Me too.” 

Whatever it takes, indeed. 

***

When Bucky wakes for the fourth time, Clint thinks they’ve been space pirates for seven days. During that time his ears have stopped aching from near-constant use of his aids (which are still working perfectly, somehow), he’s worked out how long the pills labelled ‘nutrients’ will last them, failed to contact two passing spaceships (and what he is sure was a space whale), found out how to alter the light settings so that he can pretend time is passing, and named the pod’s computer Maris. He’s also resent his distress message nearly seventy times, and still nobody’s picking up. 

“You’re looking better,” he tells Bucky, handing him some water and a nutrient pill. 

Bucky smiles wanly, swallowing the nutrients quickly. “What have I missed?” 

“Ah, not much,” Clint says, making himself comfortable on the bunk. “Maris continues to despair at my ability to learn whatever language she was originally programmed in. I think she’s mocking my accent.” 

“How’s that going?” 

“I like to think it’s going pretty well.” 

“So, terribly?” 

“Yeah, I have no idea what I’m doing.” Bucky chuckles weakly, and Clint’s heart swells. There’s no way he can work out how long it’s been since he heard that laugh, but he knows it’s been fucking long enough. He bends his head down to kiss Bucky’s shoulder, nuzzling against it as he murmurs, “You have no idea how glad I am you’re here.” 

“Don’t I?” Bucky returns. His metal fingers touch the bottom of Clint’s chin, encouraging him to look up. “Thank you,” he says. “I don’t remember much between getting abducted and waking up here, but I can imagine it’s not been easy on you. The fact that we’re both here and not still there –” Pausing, he takes Clint’s hand in his, squeezing lightly. “I think you saved my life.” 

Clint rubs the back of his neck, shrugging. “It was my turn for once.” 

Their first kiss in weeks, possibly months, is as long as it is overdue. The fears that he’d never be able to do this again wash away temporarily, and Clint loses himself in the moment, letting Bucky fill his senses. He could have stayed like that for hours, but Bucky breaks apart, swaying back slightly. “Sorry,” he says, the word slurred as he blinks slowly. 

“Am I making you swoon, Buck?” Clint jokes, relieved when Bucky huffs through a smile. Still concerned, he cups the back of Bucky’s head and rests their foreheads together, gradually relaxing when it seems the dizzy spell was just that. “You warm enough?” he asks. “I couldn’t find any clothes, but there’s two blankets, and I think I’m on the verge of getting the air-con to co-operate.” 

“An alien escape pod has air conditioning?” 

“Well, according to Maris, yeah.” 

Bucky smiles fondly. “I’ll be fine with a blanket. Why don’t you keep working at that distress call?” 

Rolling his eyes, Clint grumbles, “Awake five minutes and already back to bossing me around. You might be Captain America, but you’re not the captain of this vessel.” 

“And you are?” Bucky says as Clint goes to the computer. 

“Of course,” he replies, smirking from the seat. “Just ask Maris.” 

“Maris, who’s the captain?” 

“The captain of this escape pod’s main vessel is Captain Oraka de Chakkaliyn II of Arabasqueue.” 

“That’s her way of saying Clinton Francis Barton.” Bucky remains unconvinced, but before Clint can back up his claim to captaincy, Maris starts beeping at him. 

“What did you do?” 

“Nothing!” He looks for a button to press, but there’s nothing visible to press. Pulling a blanket over his shoulders, Bucky stands behind him. “I can’t see what I’m supposed to – ah, there!” A small light on the control wheel flashes at him insistently. 

“Know what it means?” 

“It better not be ‘check engine’. Maris? What does… ekkeshenew mean?” 

“Did you mean: equestrian?” 

“What? No – ekshnew.” 

“Did you mean: eschew?” 

“Eekshnew.” 

“Did you mean: ensure?” 

Bucky sighs deeply. 

***

Rocket’s idea seems to have worked, though when Steve looks out of the window, the green dot on the radar is nowhere to be seen. Carol sits back in her seat, running a hand through her hair. “Well, there’s something out there,” she says, “and we’re hailing it. If they receive the call, maybe they’ll reveal themselves, too.” 

Leaning over her shoulder, Steve nods. “And if it isn’t them?” 

“We apologise, hope they aren’t armed, and go on our merry way. We could ask if they’ve heard anything –” 

“–ky, you can’t just go pushing random buttons like that!” a voice suddenly says over comms. “What if it had been a self-destruct?” 

“An escape pod isn’t going to have a self-destruct button. That completely defeats the purpose of it being an escape pod.” 

“It’s alien. It could have anything in it. You didn’t see some of the weird bags in the glove compartment. Glad I didn’t put one of them on your back.” 

“‘Glove compartment’?” 

“Yeah. I dunno. It’s glove compartment-like.” 

Steve stares out of the ship’s windows, unable to believe his ears. “Bucky? Clint?” 

“Steve?” they both say a moment later. 

“Yeah,” he replies, laughing with relief. “Yeah, it’s me! Carol, too, and Natasha, and Jess –” 

“You got my distress call!” Clint cheers, and Steve exchanges a glance with Carol. Eyebrows scrunched, she shakes her head. 

“Uh, no, sorry Clint. Look, we’ll explain how we found you later; for now, let’s focus on getting you two on board with us, okay?” 

They both agree. “God, Steve,” Bucky says, “you’ve no idea how good it is to hear your voice, pal.” 

He grins, blinking heavily. “Right back at you, Buck.” 

Carol takes over; “Alright boys, I’ll need you to turn off the invisibility shielding so we can scoop you up. Don’t suppose you know how to do that?” 

“Nope,” Clint says. “I can ask Maris, though.” 

“Maris?” 

“It’s what he named the computer,” Bucky explains wearily. 

“Maris, how do I turn un-invisible?” 

Steve stifles a laugh as Carol raises her eyebrows, and ‘Maris’ promptly responds with, “I apologise. I do not recognise the question.” 

“Right,” Clint says. “Uh, Carol, you might have to wait –” 

“I can walk you through it step by step, Clint.” 

“You can?” 

“Yep,” Carol says, bringing up the escape pod’s specifications. “Rocket took apart the other one after we set off after you, and reverse-engineered it to find out how the cloaking worked.” 

“Apparently they don’t come with manuals,” Jess says, appearing on the bridge with Natasha in tow. She smiles at Carol. “Harrison told us you’d found them, so we came to see what state they’re in.” 

“Hey boys,” Natasha calls, and they chorus a greeting back at her. 

With everyone reunited, Carol guides Clint and Bucky through deactivating the cloak that hides them from view. Steve waits, heart in his mouth, and when the small white pod finally appears in the left corner of the window a weight is lifted off his shoulders – the likes of which he hasn’t felt since Bucky first came back into his life as the Winter Soldier. He fidgets as they wait for the pod to connect to Carol’s ship, pacing relentlessly, and although Natasha glares at him she doesn’t ask him to stop. 

Finally, Bucky and Clint emerge on the bridge. Naked from the waist up save for a blanket each, they’re far thinner than Steve had envisioned, an odd colour to their skin making them look more like corpses than humans. Bucky’s metal arm is draped over Clint’s shoulders, and despite his efforts in keeping them both upright Clint could clearly use some support himself. Their trousers are stained and torn, their feet are bare and dirty, and Steve has never been so happy to see either of them. 

“You guys need medical attention,” he says, moving forward with Natasha. 

Bucky and Clint nod. “Him first,” Clint says as Natasha slips under his arm and Steve takes Bucky’s weight. 

He glances at his friend, who nods tiredly instead of arguing. “Sure,” Steve says, frowning when Bucky flinches at a touch on his back. “Carol?” 

Jess beckons him to follow her. “I can take you.” He sets off after her, concerned about how much Bucky is leaning on him as they walk. 

“Of all the people to get abducted by alien slavers,” Natasha says from behind as they make their way down to the medical bay, “it would be you two, wouldn’t it?” 

“I don’t know what you’re trying to say,” Clint replies, “and my brain’s too tired to work it out, so, go easy on us for a bit?” 

“You’ve got until we get home.” 

“Uh… That might be long enough.” 

“Dummy,” she says fondly. 

“Bet you’ve got one hell of a tale to tell,” Steve says to Bucky. A faint scoff escapes between Bucky’s dried lips. “Anything we need to know now?” 

His grin is tremulous. “I’m in love with a space pirate.” 

***

Clint wakes up with a start. Why he’s woken up, he doesn’t know, but a panic sets deep in his chest with the realisation that he’s only done so because he’d fallen asleep, and if he’d fallen asleep then that means Bucky could be – 

Asleep. Behind him. On what feels like a mattress. 

Blinking, Clint twists to look over his shoulder, sitting up in the small bunk he and Bucky are sandwiched into. Bucky is sleeping deeply on his side, his breaths sounding even and steady. As Clint’s eyes adjust to the darkness he makes out the barest of frowns between his brows. 

They’re alive. They’re alive, and they’re safe, and they’re going to live. 

Someone mumbles, and Clint tenses up. Leaving his hearing aids in while he slept has become a habit, one he should probably try breaking sooner rather than later. On the other side of the small room in a similar bunk, Carol and Jess are spooned together, Jess holding Carol’s arm to her chest. She murmurs something again, grunting as she wriggles closer to Carol. Bucky doesn’t do that, Clint notes. Not without a nightmare behind the movements. After Jess’ continual sleep fidgeting, that had taken some getting used to. He sighs; given their… rocky history, he was surprised to hear that Jess had come to help find them. Watching her with Carol explained things a bit, but it’s nice to think that maybe she still cares for him. He’s happy to see her with someone else, of course, but their car-crash of relationship was more than just a stepping stone to where they are now. Clint really owes her one. Both he and Bucky owe everyone who helped to find them. 

God, he’s so fucking glad they were found. 

Carefully, Clint lies as close as he can to Bucky without pushing him off the edge of the bunk, and closes his eyes, fighting memories of Bucky wracked with fever with memories of Bucky wracked with laughter; images of alien slavers standing over him with ones of him toeing a Chitauri corpse stuck with an arrow; and the lingering sensation of Bucky limp at his side with that of Bucky flush against him, head to toe, as they made out with a fervency borne of separate missions. It’s hard, but when he next opens his eyes it’s to the sight of Bucky doing the same, and he feels better rested than he has in a long while. 

They tell the others what they went through – or rather, Clint does. He caught Bucky up as much as possible in the escape pod, but it still feels like he’s telling all of them about an excruciatingly detailed dream he had. In an attempt to be quick about it (for himself and Bucky), he skips out the more personal details, sure that an appointed therapist will extract them from him later so that he can ‘move on’, or whatever. For some reason, it doesn’t occur to him that Bucky might ask him about that until he does. 

“You’re keeping things from me,” he says when they go back to the bunk to rest. 

Clint tries to brush it off with, “I told you everything in the pod,” but Bucky’s not having it, so he caves. “You were in a bad way,” he admits quietly. He worries at the edge of his blanket, needing something other than Bucky’s face to keep his gaze on. “Like, really bad. I had to stop myself from thinking you wouldn’t – that I wouldn’t be able to – and, most of time, I could do it, y’know? I could keep the worst-case thoughts at bay and think that maybe you and I had a chance of getting through hell in one piece. But, even when we escaped, and you started getting better, I… I didn’t know if we would make it back to Earth alive.” Swallowing around a lump in his throat, Clint squeezes his eyes shut and looks away. He knows he shouldn’t be embarrassed to cry in front of Bucky, but everyone’s a child when they’re scared, aren’t they? 

A cool hand cups his cheek, hard but gentle, and Bucky pulls him sideways to kiss the other side of his face. “You did everything you could,” he says, almost straight into Clint’s ear, “and far more than I would have asked. I’m so sorry you had to go through that alone.” 

“Not your fault,” Clint tells him with a watery smile, holding Bucky’s forearm and running his thumb back and forth across the plates. “I’ll just be glad to get these fucking marks off once and for all.” 

“Me too.” With a sigh, Bucky tugs on Clint’s elbow, saying, “C’mon. Let’s get some sleep.” 

The other bunk in the room is free, but they’re more than willing to trade a comfortable space for the comfort of each other. 

***

“Are you serious, Carol? You’re saying that all those distress signals I desperately and actively sent out, over and over again to save our souls, actually went back to the very hellish and unhelpful ship we were escaping from? And that nobody else – not a single other ship that passed us – was even aware of our presence in the universe?” 

“I told you Maris was no help.” 

“I feel betrayed!” 

“It probably resented you for calling it Maris.” 

“Bucky, it’s a computer. You think JARVIS or Harrison care about their names?” 

“I am actually quite fond of the name Harrison –” 

“Oh, nobody asked you, voice in the sky!” 

“Clint, stop insulting my ship, or we’ll never make it to Earth.” 

“… Aye aye, Cap’n.” 

“And never say that on my bridge again.” 

“… Yes, sir?” 

“That’s better.” 

“Right. Cool… Stop smirking, Bucky, I rescued your sorry ass!”

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: "Bucky and Clint find themselves sold into intergalactic slavery. They bust out and become space pirates. Meanwhile on Earth Steve and Natasha do scary scary things to find them." (I know - Steve and Nat's actions aren't "scary scary", but I wasn't sure how one could 'scarily' find someone... Hopefully the Guardians make up for that ^_^)
> 
> Translations (which I don't trust because Google Translate, so if anyone knows better, please throw suggestions at me!):  
> Nyet = No  
> Ne stul = Not the chair  
> Pozhaluysta, ne stul = Please, not the chair  
> Eto moya golova = This is my head  
> Vy ne mozhete prinyat’ moi vospominaniya bol’she – ya ne pozvolyu = You can't take my memories - I won't let you


End file.
